Philadelphos
by Paixloup
Summary: "He didn't always like to recall those times." In a rare moment of introspection after an unsettling encounter with his little big brother, Wolfram remembers. (Set after the Betrayal Arc.)


**Disclaimer:** I don't own it, sadly. Copyright goes to (I think) creator/writer Tomo Takabayashi and mangaka/designer Temari Matsumoto. (Cross-posted to LiveJournal.)

 **A.N.** This is merely a wee ficlet, told from Wolfram's POV, where he reflects on the conflicting emotions he experienced during the infamous "Arc of Angst" (Conrad's betrayal) storyline from Season One. (I've been re-watching KKM recently - boy, do I miss this show! - and thought I'd just jot this tiny thing down and share it. The title's meaning should be obvious, but as a hint, just think of the city of similar name!) The curiously odd fraternal relationship between the 3 Not-Lookalike-Brothers apparently still fascinates me.

"Philadelphos"

by Paixloup

It had been quite some time since Conrart had come back to them, but certain things were hard to let go of. Memories - and feelings - from those turbulent and traumatic months seemed to cling hard and taint present joys in the worst possible moments for everyone, not least Conrart himself.

This was true of Yuri, of course, but also of Gwendal … and as much as he would never admit it out loud, of Wolfram too.

Wolfram was sure he wanted to let go of many of those things, and tried with all his might to forget, to put the heartache behind him. However, it often persisted at the worst possible times.

At the present moment, for example, he was a bit flummoxed, staring straight up at his little big brother - no, at Lord Weller, the Captain of the Guard, who was gazing back at him with a strangely gentle, enigmatic smile.

"W-what do you mean by this?" he finally stuttered out, uncomfortable with the feeling of ambiguity that had flooded him. Wolfram hated to feel off-balance, and if there was anyone who was exceptionally good at making him feel that way, it was the man standing in front of him now.

"I don't mean anything particular by it, Wolfram," answered Weller with a slight incline of his head, the small smile not disappearing. "I had merely observed that your sword was looking a little worse for wear ever since your journey to … to human country." Wolfram noticed the slight hesitation but decided to give no sign of it. "You obviously made good use of it," Conrart, no, _Weller_ , continued smoothly, his smile not faltering. "I decided it was time that a Mazoku warrior of your growing stature should possess a finer blade. So, I commissioned Rüdiger Janz to fashion you a new one, one that better matched your reach. This sword should enable you to exceed your previous skill level, should you wish it."

Wolfram stared first at the fine weapon that Conrart … no, Weller … _gah!_ … (Wolfram gave up on his mental name game) was holding horizontally in both hands in front of him, before raising his eyes to the face of the man before him, who was waiting patiently for Wolfram's appraisal. Wolfram wasn't always the best judge of expressions worn by that face, but he thought for a moment he could detect a slight flicker of uncertainty behind the smile.

"Rüdiger is the finest swordsmith in the best forge shop in all of Shin Makoku," said Wolfram slowly, his gaze dropping again to the sword held in front of him. He could see the expert craftsmanship already, the balance perfect as it rested in the extended hands, the shining, moulded hilt in the distinctive style preferred by the Ten Aristocrats, the gleaming, sharp length of the blade, the ornamental design etched into the pommel around a setting of semi-precious stones. It was a beautiful weapon, on par with Günter's high-class sword, and clearly of a finer - and fancier - make than Conrart's own well-worn simple soldier's blade.

Conrart only smiled. "Yes, he certainly is," was all the reply he gave. His hands were unwavering as he continued to hold the sword out to Wolfram.

Wolfram swallowed, and his gaze dropped again, this time caught by the hand that held the bladed end of the sword. The left hand.

"This seems very expensive," Wolfram muttered. "A great expenditure of precious resources."

Conrart gave a slight shrug but said nothing.

Wolfram's attention remained riveted on the hand for a long moment. He hadn't noticed before, but it was of a slightly different shade than the rest of Conrart's more olive-toned skin. And, he saw with a little jolt, that while there were still several tiny scars around the fingers, they were different, fewer. Most of all he noticed that the deeper scar that had once crossed the back of the hand and ran up the outside of the wrist, the one that Conrart had received when he had been small, when he and Wolfram were first sword-fight play-training together, was gone.

For a few heart-stopping moments, Wolfram couldn't tear his eyes from that hand.

Then Conrart cleared his throat.

"I … I understand if you would prefer a sword of your own design, or one of House von Bielefelt's style. I just thought …"

He trailed off, and though the smile on his lips remained fixedly in place, the light in his eyes had died. He stepped back slightly, head tipping forward, eyes cast down, and lowered the sword.

Wolfram suddenly surged forward and snatched up the sword right out of Conrart's falling arms. "No! I … I accept it." Conrart froze in place and looked up at Wolfram, blinking at him for a moment. Wolfram drew the sword closer to his chest, and watched the light edge slightly back into the golden brown gaze. "Just … just don't think this means I'll go easy on you in our next sparring session, Lord Weller! I don't consider myself in debt to you!"

Conrart's smile was warmer, more genuine, like the sun hesitantly just beginning to gleam out from behind dark clouds. "Of course not." He straightened, and that damnable left hand fell away from Wolfram's line of sight. "I hope it serves you long and well, Wolfram."

Wolfram could only give a curt nod and turned away, gripping the sword haughtily. But he couldn't just … "I'll make sure it does," he impulsively flung over his shoulder.

The brief, familiar, musical laughter in response made Wolfram's heart stop for a moment. He hadn't heard that particular laugh in so long …

"That's all I ask," said Conrart softly, and there was another moment of hesitation before Wolfram heard his retreating footsteps cross the courtyard ground. He shifted his grip on the sword, and then couldn't help but turn and watch until Conrart vanished from view.

And now Wolfram was in his chambers, staring at the gorgeous sword laid out on the bed in front of him.

 _What does he mean by this?_

Unbidden, he again saw in his mind's eye that strange new hand held out to him, open.  
Whirling around suddenly, he moved over to his armoire, and yanked open the bottommost drawer. Feverishly he rummaged through the clothing and items he had stored there, until he found the small box he had hidden underneath an old cloth at the far back. He drew it out and stood, staring down at the lid before slowly opening it.

Inside lay a button.

It was a plain, functional sort of button, khaki brown in colour, charred and dusted with ash as if having been too near a fire.

 _Conrart …_

Wolfram had kept secret this object, hadn't even told Yuri about it, or shared it with him. This button that Gwendal had dropped into his palm that fateful day when everything had changed.

He had not been able to bring himself to discard it, even when he – and everyone else (except Yuri himself, Wolfram remembered … _"I'm sure our Conrad would never betray Shin Makoku. He would never betray me. I'm sure there's a reason."_ … still echoed in his memory) – had believed that Conrart had betrayed Yuri, believed that he had, in fact, betrayed them all.

 _Our Conrad_ …

He picked up the button and held it tightly in his fist, eyes clenched shut, head awhirl with the memory of those difficult days.

He remembered how he had felt when the soldiers had brought the covered remains of Conrart's arm to him and Gwendal in the charred remains of the church after the ambush and the disappearance, when they had realized what must have befallen both Yuri and his half-brother, acknowledged or not. The frustration and terror of those days, the horror and grief at what had happened to two of the most important people in his life (only very recently having come to terms with that truth about one of them, though he would never admit it to anyone, and scarcely to himself), the terrible feeling of not knowing, of fearing the worst, of straining for the slightest glimmer of hope of a different outcome.

 _Be alive. I swear I will find Yuri for you._

He remembered as if it were yesterday standing in front of that dreadful little case that held Conrart's severed limb, placed reverently like a miniature casket upon the table in the room of repose, lit by wavering candlelight, making that vow before he had left on the quest to Caloria with Giesela, uncertain if Conrart was living or dead.

He remembered how overwhelmed he had felt in the Ultimate Tournament coliseum upon discovering Conrart there, gloriously alive, and with two arms, yet somehow in the clutches of Dai Shimaron and its king. He remembered how later Conrart had appeared to them through the mist, standing in the snow, clad in Dai Shimaron's military whites, warning them to go another way … and the abject pain in those eyes that he obviously strove to hide behind a veneer of aloof coldness.

 _"No. I cannot go back … You are no longer my master. When next we meet, I really will be your enemy."_

He had seemed so alone.

Wolfram remembered even more vividly the day Conrart had nearly died, pierced through with Shimaron arrows, reversing all expectations and defiantly standing against Belar, defending Yuri in desperate fear, having freed Wolfram and trusting him, despite everything, to help protect him. To help save them all.

 _"He still thinks of you as his precious little brother. I can tell."_

He drew in a sharp breath; playing clearly in his mind's eye was the memory of the conversation he'd had with Yuri by the fountain in that town square when he had first told Yuri about the war twenty years ago – and Conrart's part in it.

 _"You probably can't imagine it looking at him now, but back then, he was known as the Lion of Luttenberg …"_

Wolfram clutched the button tightly, and thought of Conrart's new arm, and the price he had paid for achieving Yuri's dream. He remembered the look on his big brother's face when the general had knelt in front of Yuri to offer recompense for his little brother's sins, and his own shock at the action, and how much the knowledge of it hurt.

 _"I offer my apology on behalf of my foolish younger brother. I am fully aware of the seriousness of my crime in failing to prevent Conrart from abandoning his mission to protect the king ..."_

Those times had been terrible, and the memories difficult for Wolfram, for Yuri, for Gwendal, for everyone.

 _Never again …_

But what must it have been like for Conrart? He had been all alone in Belar's palace, surrounded by enemies who hated him and wished only to use him, believing he would never be able to come home ever again, believing he was the worst sort of traitor possible. All that pain, all that grief … all because of Shinou's command, Shinou's whim.

 _"He asked me … to build the world that Yuri wished for, was I willing to give up everything? My answer, of course, was that I could. No matter what."_

Wolfram thought then of the look in those eyes as Conrart had gifted Wolfram with the new sword, once again trusting him to aid with Yuri's protection, and by extension, with the protection of the kingdom.

 _"Cut off Lord Weller's arm! Show them the power of the Box!"_

He remembered his mouth going dry at Belar's words, how he and the others had tried to shield the wounded Conrart from view, to protect him from Dai Shimaron's vengeful rage. He remembered his own desperate exhortation, _"Don't die, Conrart!"_

There had been so much blood …

 _"You can come home with us!"_

 _"I can't …not after betraying you, Heika. Besides … I haven't completed the task Shinou appointed to me ... and besides …" the breath hitched, the voice became so very faint... "I … I'm going to …"_

He stood for a long time, unseeing, holding the memory and the button fiercely, the sound and smell of the burnt, dripping, gutted remains of that village church mixed with the vision of that mountainside Fransian battlefield as Conrart began to fade away, still so vivid in his mind. He remembered the anguish, the terror, the feeling that everything he wanted to say would now be too late …

 _But …_

Finally Wolfram's shoulders drooped, and he exhaled, long and slow, the tension ebbing out of him little by little.

 _Yuri saved him. He's alive._

He still had a chance.

 _And now, at long last, he's here, he's safe._

He opened his curled fingers and stared down at the singed button lying on his palm.

 _He's home. Where he belongs._

He took a breath and very gently, very deferentially, laid the damaged button back down inside its little box.

Wolfram looked up at a shout and the sound of clashing swords from outside his window. Even though the sun was setting, it was apparent that training for the day had not yet concluded.

"Watch your back, Taichou!" More clanging and soldiers' shouts ensued.

"Isn't that your job?" he heard Conrart's distinctive voice respond with an effort, followed by a breathless chuckle from what had to be Josak as more sword sounds rang out.

Wolfram felt an unexpected smile cross his face, feeling a peculiar sort of peace grow within him that had not been there before. He looked at the new sword waiting for him.

 _The hand is different._ He _is different. But he's still Conrart. No matter what, he's still … my brother._

He gazed one last time at his button … and then closed the lid.

Yes, it had been quite some time since Conrart had come back to them, and certain things were hard to let go of.

But for some of those things, Wolfram was now sure he never wanted to.


End file.
